


Of Cabbages and Kings

by InTheYearOfThirtyNine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aurors, Betrayal, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Family Secrets, Holmes Brothers, Inspired by Spooks | MI5 (TV), Loneliness, M/M, Male Slash, Mycroft Being a Bastard, Percy Weasley Redemption, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Protective Older Brothers, Separation Anxiety, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy Percy Weasley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29241096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheYearOfThirtyNine/pseuds/InTheYearOfThirtyNine
Summary: After Reichenbach, the Ice Man ponders a traumatic event that shaped the lives of the Holmes family when he was a boy, and learns to accept a part of himself that he has long hated. Meanwhile, Sherlock must accept the new life his brother has found for him, away from Baker Street, away from John - involving chocolate frogs, flying broomsticks and a disgraced wizard desperate for redemption. Well. Down the rabbit hole he goes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**_Chapter One._ **

It was thought best, at the time, that Sherlock would be told it had been a terror attack.

Of course, once he was older, Sherlock being Sherlock (or to put it more aptly, Sherlock being a _Holmes_ ), would investigate the events of that day and discover that it was a blatant falsehood. That there had been no act of terrorism. That there were no public records of such an event, no articles in the newspapers, no old newsreels. There had been no insurgent attack. That it was all a lie, a tale to protect a young boy.

But that of course, would not be for some years. After which, the secret would be sheltered under a cocoon of silence, the communion of restraint, where the pauses and the pained stillness during conversation were as important as rituals as the wafer on the tongue of a choir boy during Eucharist. Ah, the aristocratic rules of the English household. Where wars were waged amidst the passing of the Yorkshire Pudding during Sunday lunch, and a feather light laugh spoke volumes.

Mycroft had not been there when Sherlock had been told. He had been four at the time, with those baby curls of his still loose around his shoulders, uncut and unruly, as the stubborn boy had maintained that "pirates did not have time for haircuts". A small part of Mycroft, even later on as a man, still seized up at the thought of the little boy having to wade through the torrent of that news alone.

"Mycroft."

That small voice, demanding attention, had brought Mycroft out of his stupor. He moved to turn over in his bed, to face his small brother peering in behind the half closed doorway, and he winced in pain, as the burns under the bandages still stung, even under a sheet of vagueness. The buzz of the morphine, though beginning to wear off, still made the room unclear, and he blinked, as Sherlock shuffled in.

"You're home."

Mycroft closed his eyes, making a non-committal sound, as he heard the soft footsteps moving nearer.

"You came home last night. From the hospital."

It was spoken like a demand more than a statement, but Mycroft knew the hysteria and confusion that was boiling beneath those words, and he knew that if he did not do the right thing now, Sherlock would start screaming. Mummy did so hate it when Sherlock screamed.

He reached out with his hand, and felt a spout of relief when Sherlock blundered the last few steps to the bed and threw himself on him. The pain throbbed at Mycroft's flesh and he hissed in the newly remembered pain, but the selfish little boy did not seem to notice as he curled up, under the blankets, clinging to his twelve year old brother. The child's fingernails bit through Mycroft's light nightshirt at the covered wounds underneath, and Mycroft bit his lip to contain a grunt.

"Sherrinford is dead."

Mycroft stiffened at the words, and instantly memories assaulted him. Sherrinford, shaking, blood everywhere. So much crimson, as he lay on the soft carpet, looking up at Mycroft as he hollered for help, bits of glass scattered around him, like flecks of dusted sugar. Then there had been a shriek as the hotel maid had barged in from hearing the boy's cries – seeing the mess, the ruins of the expensive room. Mycroft still howled, dripping with his own blood, but Sherrinford just lay there, his body trembling from what had just taken place, his weak whimpers soft.

He had been abroad on the Continent for the summer hols, on a diplomatic trip of his father's, with his brother Sherrinford, elder by two years. Sandy haired and with a penchant for top-hats. They had been left alone most of the time, with their father attending conferences and negotiations. But he had promised to take them out that third night, to an evening of symphony and fireworks. And ice-cream. The promise of ice-cream, so deliciously common, bought from a street vendor who spoke Italian.

Mycroft did not want to think anymore on the accident. He lay with Sherlock, holding tight, as he remembered an afternoon together on the trip, before it all burned to hell. A safe memory. He could not afford to cry – not now, it would frighten Sherlock.

Sherrinford had moved over to him that day, holding out a candle, a small flame dancing on its wick.

Mycroft had not looked up, "Go away."

"Oh come on, Mycroft."

"Father says I mustn't."

Sherrinford had chuckled; then set the candle down beside Mycroft's school papers. Mycroft said nothing, but pushed it a safe distance away from his work.

"If I could use spells on anything, I'd magic away school holiday homework."

"Of course you would," Mycroft said without missing a heartbeat, "You're average. There's no hint of prodigy in you, no potential for genius," he felt a flicker of mischief, "You're the family shame."

"Might be average, but I'm going to inherit. Lord Holmes. _Lord_ Holmes." Sherrinford let out a snort, "Sounds. Like. A wanker."

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile, as he continued with his calculus.

"But I mean – you really don't mind, Mycroft? Eton instead of…" he let the words trail.

Mycroft did not look up, "Of course I don't mind. It's _Eton._ Why on earth would I want to…Turn toads into…" he made a face, "blasted teacups – when I could one day –"

"Rule the world?" Sherrinford feigned innocence.

Mycroft let out a snort, "Don't be rudimentary," he furrowed his brow as he thought over a sum, then turned the page to read a paragraph of notes, before answering, "There is no world worth any interest, outside of London. Well, no, that's not fair, I suppose. Outside of the United Kingdom."

"So you just want to rule the UK then, little brother?"

"Far too much work," Mycroft answered, "No. I don't want to rule anything. Merely pull the strings of those who do. In the shadows. Directing the course of crown and country, while unsuspecting fools…This damned sum…"

He let Mycroft muse for a few moments, till Mycroft had his inevitable understanding of the math problem and then laughed that it had taken those moments to grasp it, and scribble down the answer, before Sherrinford said, "Do you think Father will pay for scuba diving lessons?"

Mycroft looked up and stared at Sherrinford for a few moments, not rising to the bait of giving his brother attention at such an odd statement. Then he nodded, and Sherrinford's smile deepened into a grin when his brother had deduced what he had meant. Mycroft sat back in his chair, placing his pencil down, "You want to be an astronaut now? Well, I suppose that will stop Mummy's tears of you talking about the theatre."

Sherrinford's lip curled good-naturedly, "That was hilarious though."

____

____

"You always upset Mummy…"

"Yes, but I'm not the good son," he paused, then said coaxingly, "Oh, come _on,_ Mycroft."

Mycroft looked to the candle and sighed, feeling a twitch in his fingers, as much as he said he wouldn't, "I can't…It…It could have dire effects."

"How?" Sherrinford lent forward, "It's natural, isn't it? Strange things have always happened around you. It's not going to hurt anything. Just because you don't want to go to Hogwarts, doesn't mean you can't play with your magic."

Mycroft stared at the candle for a few more moments, then at once blew the flame out. Sherrinford slumped back in his chair, disappointingly.

"Mummy's already battling with the Ministry of Magic, or whatever it's called," Mycroft opened up a book, "Bet they've never had someone high up fight them. And so she should," he sniffed, "Can't believe they stormed the Manor, trying to say I had to go to their silly school of magic," he flicked to the back of the book, "If I repress it, pretend it never happens, fight against it, ignore it, I don't need any training or nonsense. They say that it's dangerous if I don't learn to control it. Well, I have controlled it. And stop looking at me like that; I'm not juggling flames for you. If you want to believe in fairytales, then become an astronaut and live out in space."

"Don't want to be an astronaut," Sherrinford muttered, "I want to be an astronomer. Study stars. I just think…I just think you could do so much, Mycroft."

"It's what I intend to do," Mycroft replied, "But the proper way."

"The proper way," Sherrinford pulled a face, "Sometimes I think I should become an actor, just to pave the way for Sherlock, so he can grow up knowing he can do whatever he wants. You _want_ to learn magic, Mycroft, I know you do. But you're just scared. You're blind scared, and lazy as well. Not to mention a sodding snob."

"Lazy?" Mycroft held up his work, "Is that why they give me advanced calculus two years above my age level?"

"Oh, pshh! Learning's easy for you. You're a genius. But you never try anything that might take a little effort. Thank God I'm the family disappointment. I can do whatever I want."

"Yes," Mycroft said dryly, "The load of having a genius brother on your shoulders," from a folder he took out a sheaf of paper, "Who does your homework, because you can't be bothered memorising Latin. Such a burden it must be!"

Sherrinford stood up and took the papers, then dropped a bag of rhubarb and custard sweets on to the desk, with a smirk, "Yes, well. Always good doing business with you, My."

"Mm," was Mycroft's reply.

Mycroft now closed his eyes for a few moments, then opened them, and sat up, holding Sherlock close. His nightshirt was soaked from his brother's tears, "There's no need to cry, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, tears streaming down his face, "Sherrinford's not really dead, is he? Is he? He's coming home, isn't he? Who's going to play with me? You're always away at school now. Who's going to look after me, Mycroft?"

Mycroft did not answer. Instead he stood up, staggering a little from the grogginess, he threw on his dressing-robe. "Come on," he said to the boy, and took his hand, ready to take him back to his own room. He needed to walk. To stabilise himself. Sherlock would complain of course, at being led back to his room, and beg. Perhaps cry a little more. And Mycroft would sigh; then promise to stay in Sherlock's nursery. And he would stay, like he always did, when he was home from school in the holidays.

It had always been him, Sherrinford and Sherlock.

There was no point sleeping. He needed to be up early, anyway. Before he left his bedroom, he took a letter from his desk. A letter which had the details of a meeting at the Ministry of Magic, about the accidental death of his brother.

Mycroft felt cold at the thought, but forced himself not to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two._ **

With a gasp, Sherlock Holmes awoke from slumber, with the kiss of Molly Hooper still lingering from his last lucid memory, on his forehead.

Moriarty.

It was _over._

The Holmes brothers had played their cards right.

Richard Brook had been _real._ Moriarty had been a mask. And now both man and disguise were finished.

Sherlock brought his hands to his face, and tried to calm himself. But they shook, reminding him all too well the frailty of rationality. He was stripped bare - had been stripped bare for awhile now, since the night at the pool when John had been threatened.

It was over.

John.

_John._

A strange sound broke the silence of his room. Like a wounded animal, small whines, and when he discovered the sound came from him, he did not repress them. Instead they grew louder and more desperate.

_"I…I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."_

__

_"What's going on?"_

He was crying. Sherlock Holmes was crying – no, sobbing like a child, unable to stop, like a newly orphaned boy. This was so strange to him, that the shock of such a thing deepened the wails. He had not cried since…Since he was a boy, crying under his bed for Sherrinford, when Mycroft had left.

No, that wasn't the complete truth. He remembered another time, not too far back in his history, imprisoned in those walls, wailing, _"Mycroft, please. Please don't make me stay. I haven't heard the voices in eons, honest. Lestrade, tell him I've been well. There's a woman – a woman, she promised she'd watch over me, Mrs. Hudson. I helped her with a case, years before. Her husband…I ensured his execution, in Florida, when I was in America…"_

__

__

_"Ah, yes," Mycroft had stood before him, emotionless as usual, leaning on that damned umbrella of his, "Let's talk about your time in_ America. _The_ nightmare _of bringing you back home after that little_ fit _of yours, because –"_

__

__

_"That's not *fair*. I haven't been that low since, and you know it. Look, Mrs. Hudson said I could stay at Baker Street. She lives below the flat; she'll keep an eye on me."_

_Lestrade at the table, shifted on his seat thoughtfully, "I can keep an eye on him too, Mr. Holmes. He does seem better –" he nodded his head quickly in apology as Sherlock stiffened, "Sorry, Sherlock. I can keep an eye on you. You do seem better."_

_Mycroft shook his head, "You're not ready to live independently. Sherlock, for God's sake, what would you have me do? You stay awake for days on end, you forget to eat –"_

_"Eating is dull," Sherlock muttered under his breath; then hastily added, "I can eat! I'll eat like a prince. I'll sleep regularly –" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, "–Alright, fine, I'll sleep when *necessary*. And I promise – I promise I'll stay clean."_

_Mycroft twirled his umbrella on its point, then let out a breath, "I'm not happy with this."_

_"I promise," Sherlock said firmly. And thankfully those shameful tears began to subside when Mycroft softened, and threw up his hands in surrender._

_Sherlock let out a sigh._

____

____

_"But Sherlock," Mycroft said, moving forward and fondly tidying Sherlock's hair, "You're not to complain about my…Surveillance methods…Is that understood? I do so worry about you," his fingers tightened around a handful of curls and he lifted his brother's face to meet his gaze, till Sherlock nodded slightly. "Good lad," Mycroft smiled with genuine fondness, and Sherlock laughed. He had as much freedom as anybody could ever have, when they were the loved brother of Mycroft Holmes. And that was enough. Well. For now. It would be easy to win Lestrade over that he could manage on his own. And for some unknown but blessed reason, his brother did listen to reason with the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. Most of the time._

Those tears had been a mixture of performance art, frustration and fear of having to stay in the hospital. These ones for John were different. They were blind grief and despair, and he did not stop, even when Mycroft entered the room with another figure. A young man, Sherlock's own age, with russet coloured hair and a suit tailored to his every measurement. The young man straightened the horned-rimmed glasses on his nose, as he stared down at Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

Tears still racked his body, but he sat up at his brother's sharp words. In the corner of his eye he could see Sherrinford standing in a pose, the way he had used to stand, to tease Mycroft's stance. Sherlock blinked and his dead brother was gone. That gave him the gravity to calm down more than a reprimand from Mycroft ever could.

Sherlock breathed in. And breathed out. Containing the dread. He would not tell Mycroft.

Instead he slowly turned to survey the stranger.

A tailored suit. Obviously with a little money to spare. But his shoes – his shoes though of good make, were a little worn, which suggested a bit of thrift in his personality, as if he had come into money but had not always had it. He stood poised, but it had a practiced air to it – for some reason Sherlock could envision this young man standing in front of a mirror and getting the stance just right. A flick of ink was smudged on his right earlobe, but the smudge did not look as if it were from a pen. It was a few specks rather than a smudge mark – had he been writing with a quill? Why on earth would any public servant write with a quill? Mmm...No, more correctly, he had the look of PR all over him, with that lickspittle smile. The breast pocket of his suit coat was adorned with a wilted daisy, a carelessly picked one. Why on earth would a man dressed so impeccably, wear such a thing? Sentiment. Not from a woman, a woman of his taste would have had him wear a handkerchief, or even an expensive fountain pen clipped to the material. A child. A small child he cared for. A little girl. _His_ little girl? A little girl he had not seen in more than two or three days, judging by the state of the flower. But a little girl whom he loved, _again,_ judging by the state of the flower still in his suit pocket. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the redhead's hand. Ah. No wedding ring, but the shade of skin was lighter on the ring finger. There _had_ been a wife. Sherlock looked back up, and spied a fine gold chain under the collar of his pressed shirt. He would bet money the chain held a ring. So. Emotion again. Clearly not divorced, even if he held feelings still for her he would keep it somewhere safe, not wear it close to his heart. Widowed then. Widowed and left with a daughter. A daughter in another's care who he did not see as much as he wished to – the flower told him everything. An absent, overworking father.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, then looked towards the corner of the room, with relief that Sherrinford was not there again. His calming trick of deduction always worked.

He then looked to Mycroft, who gave a very slight and subtle shake to his head. With the meaning clear. Don't start with him. Not now.

Sherlock stood, and stared at both of them, his voice hoarse, "I thought I was to be a ghost, Mycroft."

Mycroft said nothing to him, and instead turned to the young man, his hand resting on his shoulder, "Here he is, Percy. I now charge you with his life."

Percy nodded solemnly. Oh _brilliant._ There was another Mycroft. John would be amused…He tried to ignore the jolt of pain from the thought of John.

"Percy Weasley," the young man said, holding out his hand. Sherlock did not move to shake it. Percy stood there awkwardly, till he stepped back to Mycroft.

"I thought. I was to be. A ghost. Only you and Molly were to know my whereabouts."

"Oh you are, brother dear," Mycroft said with a mock ingratiating smile, "You will disappear, just like a spectre, while I myself bury your name. Now come…" he seemed pained, so pained for a moment, "There is much I need to tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three._ **

Percy Weasley had been in the employ of the Muggle British Secret Service since a year after the Battle at Hogwarts. That had been over a decade ago, but not three or so evenings went by when he did not have night terrors of that time. Not just of the one battle of course. It had been three years of nightmare fodder. He had watched all the rules of what should have dictated life destroyed, the Ministry of Magic – an establishment he had clung to, to the detriment of everybody he loved – corrupted. He had seen good people put on trial and wrongfully sent to Azkaban. He had seen friends taken in chains by dementors – Penelope Clearwater screaming, always Penny screaming _"Percy! Percy, don't let them take me!"_ – he had stood helplessly and watched his family targeted. Had been too frightened to make a stand when his youngest brother had been listed Undesirable Number Three. Had prayed that Ginny would be safe at school. He had himself been taken by Death Eaters and tortured, while they tried to extract information from Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister. Those memories in particular haunted him. The brilliant, stalwart and defiant wizard who had managed to escape his bindings long enough to aid and order Percy to flee.

_"Run boy!"_

__

__

_"I can't – I can't, Sir – not without you –"_

_"It is a command, Percy, not a plea. You must find the Order of the Phoenix, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. You must tell them the Ministry has fallen. You must tell them that they are coming."_

He had fought in the battle. Had watched murder. Had murdered in turn. Had surveyed the lawns of the school, his childhood, torn apart by dark magic, turned to rubble, to ruins…And then of course there was Freddie…Freddie… _Freddie…_

_"You actually are joking Perce! I don't think I've seen you joke since you were-"_

And then the explosion.

He had turned coward after it all. He had watched his mother mourn for her child, had had to help physically restrain George, alongside Bill and Charlie, after the suicide attempts.

He had watched Hermione, at such a ridiculously young age, marry the hero who could never deserve her…

But then, neither had he.

Nevertheless. It had still burned to see her walk down the aisle. So young. So stupidly young. Children desperate for family after their worlds had been torn asunder.

He had been brooding one night, when Bill had dropped into a chair opposite, and had stared at him thoughtfully.

A bout of childhood self-consciousness hit Percy, and before he could stop himself he reverted back to his mask of haughtiness, _"Yes,_ William?"

Bill had said nothing for a moment, but folded his arms, and then said, "How long have you loved her, Percy?"

Percy had felt his insides plummet, but he managed to just blink and say, "Pardon?"

"Fleur picked it up. I wouldn't have caught on. But she mentioned it, and so I've been watching you, and it's true. Merlin. You're not half obvious when you can see the signs, so, little brother of mine – how long have you loved Hermione Granger for?"

Percy was too shocked to think of denials. He just sat there. Finally he had answered, a very quiet, "Does it matter?"

Bill scratched his jaw, and nodded with a shrug, "You're probably right. I don't think it rightly does."

"You hate me for it."

Bill laughed, not maliciously, just a sharp exhale of air. "I don't hate you, mate. But you are filled with it. And it's going to do you damage."

Percy must have looked confused, because Bill leaned forward, and explained, "I've been watching you. Since the battle. You're looking for a fight, Perce –"

"What are you talking about –"

Bill held his hand up for silence, and Percy cut off.

"You're looking for a fight. You're hurting. You feel sick with guilt for your absence. For what you said to Dad in that row those years ago. For upsetting Mum. For not coming to Fleur's and my wedding. For... Staying away when Dad was at Mungo's. It's eating you up inside. You question everything. You look at George and think of Freddie. You look at Mum and wish it had been you who had died. We've forgiven you, we love you, but you just can't accept it. And so you're waiting for an opportunity to do something, where you think we will then hate you, because that's what you think you deserve. I didn't know what it was exactly, but when Fleur mentioned Hermione, I started… Basically, my theory is you'll end up clashing with Ron…" he paused, "And Perce, I'm not going to let you do that."

Percy breathed in. Then exhaled. He still said nothing.

Bill's voice became gentle – a stark contrast to the scars that marred his flesh. The deep tears in his face, that he called Greyback's Gift, "You've got fight in you. So much anger. But you're bottling it all up. And you need to release it. I know you've had to deal with harassment lately."

That was true. He rarely ventured out from home anymore. So many people angered and hurt by what had taken place but reveling in the freedom of the revolution being won, had started to taunt and chase those they called the Ministry Dogs. Those who had worked in the Ministry when it had been corrupted. He felt he had deserved the jeers, the slurs, the hateful letters, and so he had said nothing. He had been pulled in an alleyway on a number of occasions and kicked to the ground and beaten. Fighting in the last battle meant little, everybody had known his position beforehand, and what little good he had done with Aberforth Dumbledore towards the end there was not widely known. He had endured the punishment of the public, until it had started to become more vicious when certain high-profile people escaped sentences to Azkaban. The Malfoys for example…Percy had been cornered and pissed on when the headline of the Daily Prophet had said Lucius had been given home detention, instead of time in prison. It had been Percy's fault – he should not have gone out that day. He should have known there would be trouble.

"Oh. You know, do you?" Percy said softly.

"I have an old school friend. He was in Slytherin, but we both had prefect duties together sometimes. He was muggle born. He hated – he seemed to hate being at Hogwarts. He was a year older, but in my year because he arrived at school later. Some…Scandal involving the death of a family member. His family had refused to send him to Hogwarts, they were that type of muggle family, muggle purists. And then, you know, his magic must have snapped, and… Anyway, he hated everything about school, but strove to become prefect… I don't know, out of principle or something. Whether or not he wanted it, he had to have it. You know what Slytherins are like. But he was alright. We played chess together. Of course, he beat me every single time, but, it never mattered. He was really smart, a genius, was good to talk to. Anyway, the moment he graduated he left the wizard world, and returned back home. There was trouble with his little brother - he was always worried about him, though he never said much. I've kept in contact with him, and… Now he's the head of MI5. Basically the muggle version of the ASB. I've written to him… I've asked for him to take you on as an agent. Like an auror, but without the wands. And with muggle weapons."

Percy just stared at Bill.

"You'll get to end the bad guys, Perce. Protect muggles. Fight for order and justice… Utilize that anger you've got. Redeem yourself…" Bill then smiled a little, "Make something of yourself. Something you could never do here now, not with your reputation. This is…A chance for you."

It had taken a lot more convincing of course. But it had been the best decision of his life.

He had worked under Mycroft Holmes, until he had moved on to other work and another took over Her Majesty's Secret Service. He had moved to muggle London, had learned how to use guns, to disassemble them. He had been sent on missions on foreign soil. Had protected people on British soil. He had been captured, had escaped, had taken terrorists in, had nearly been blown up, shot at, and then there had been that time when he had been poisoned… Who knew potions and Snape's dry, drawling lesson on antivenin would one day save his life in a muggle public restroom?

It had been the best decade of his life. He was finally a true Gryffindor.

But then Audrey had been taken…

His beautiful Audrey. A fellow agent, but not on the field. She had worked on the muggle computers, could hack into any system, break any code. They had been married in a simple ceremony at the registry office. Bill had been his best man, and Mycroft Holmes had signed as the witness. Percy had carried her over the thresh-hold of his flat, and their first dance had been in the small garden - to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Her cheek on his shoulder, she sang softly to the tune, _"I'll light the fire... You place the flowers in the vase, that you bought today.."_

She had been taken. And it had been discovered that it had been by a man called Sebastian Moran.

The only thing that had kept Percy sane was that there was no evidence she had been killed. She had information in her head, she was too important to kill. Too important… Wasn't she?

"Percy…"

He had been too overwhelmed to care much what Mr. Holmes had wanted in that phone call to begin with. He had barely registered his phone ringing as he searched Audrey's computer to try and find any sort of hint about her whereabouts. Of course MI5 had already gone through the hard drive, but Percy had always been obsessed with looking things over through a fine comb, repeatedly. He had finally answered when it would not stop ringing. Percy felt ashamed at that now, Mr. Holmes had always been good to him, had helped him resurrect his life. But Audrey had been taken weeks before, and he had barely had any sleep. He had sent little Molly to Bill and Fleur, while he planned and schemed…

"Percy. I need... I need your help. My brother… Sherlock… He…" there had been a pregnant pause on the phone, then Mycroft continued, "This has to be strictly unofficial. You'll need to go in the dark on this… You go only through me. I need you to help discover and chase down a certain network. And that network includes an assassin named Moran. I understand that Audrey... Would you do that for me? It may take years of your life, but, with the Spider now dead, he is the most dangerous man in London." He swallowed, "Percy, as you are aware, I am not the type of man to disclose things about myself, but... This is... Of vital importance. And I have always seen myself in you... Therefore, you are the only one I can trust to take care of Sherlock. Please."

Percy did not even pause, "I'll be right over, Mr. Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Four._ **

Mycroft led his brother through Holmes Manor.

The addition of Sherlock to the Holmes family unit had been a surprise one, to say the least. Not unwelcome of course… Well, not exactly. Just …Unexpected. There had already been two children in appropriately paced succession, and that was enough for the Holmes'. Sherrinford had been born first, to Lord Cian and Lady Una Holmes. Fair haired and with an impish smile, he had proved himself the delight of the mothers in the high social circles his parents frequented. Then Mycroft had been born when Sherrinford had been two years of age. And with the expectation and duty of child-bearing for the line of inheritance taken care of, Una reared them for the accepted time allotted by social convention. Therefore, by the time they were four and six respectively, she returned to work, leaving them under the care of a nanny reminiscent of a stern Victorian governess, but with a hint of mischief, a cook, a tutor who always seemed to doze off, and a chauffer who's pockets were always full of sweets.

It was an idyllic first few years of life, and Mycroft could not have asked for a better childhood. His mother was like a silver screen idol to him, making appearances spontaneously during lessons, or popping in at dinner if they were lucky. The first woman to become the Deputy Director-General of MI5. The Queen herself made appointments with Una Holmes, and Prince Edward was a childhood friend of the Holmes' boys. What more could a boy boast about? His father had been a quiet and thoughtful man, with more of a poet's nature. He was a British Diplomat and was almost always away, and when he was home at the manor, he would be in his library researching or playing his violin.

Lessons came easily to Mycroft. In fact, when he was only a small child he remembered distinctly being told by experts that his parents should expect great things from him. He was a child prodigy. Sherrinford had always maintained the joke that he was Mummy's Favourite Disappointment. The insecurity was due to his lack of prodigy, but that was hardly his fault, and truthfully was never really held against him. In any school classroom he would have been at the top if he had been diagnosed with the dyslexia he had had, earlier on. But by the time it had been explained, he had enjoyed his position as the jester in the family for far too long to maintain any sort of studious ambition. Though, he had harboured an avid interest in the constellations and would have become an astronomer had he lived to adulthood…

Mycroft swallowed as he walked down the hallway, with Sherlock wrapped in a blanket beside him, trudging barefoot on the carpet. Mycroft could tell he was shivering. It was not from the weather. Tears still tumbled down his brother's cheeks, though he did not seem to be aware of them, and he looked deathly pale. John weighed on his mind. Always John. _Only_ John. Always such a selfish man, was Sherlock, but John had entered into his heart like no other being ever had for him. Mycroft said nothing, but opened the door to his study, and gestured Sherlock to enter. He then asked Percy Weasley to remain outside for a moment. He of course nodded, and Mycroft gave a grateful smile; then followed after Sherlock, closing the door behind them.

No. Sherlock had not been an unwelcome addition.

_"Sherrinford…Mycroft, dear…"_

Mycroft still remembered the odd appearance of his father at breakfast that morning. He had been five at the time, and his father sat down at the children's table. He had been so big on the little chair, and had looked so silly. With a gentle brush of his father's knuckle against his cheek, Mycroft knew something was incredibly wrong. It was not the fact his father was unshaven or still in his pyjamas, but that tender act of affection that told him their world was about to be torn apart at the seams. He felt his heart almost stop, and he stared at his father, waiting for the axe to fall.

"Mummy has been taken."

Sherrinford had let out a whine, and their father instantly collected him in his arms, "I got a call from the Prime Minister early this morning, boys. I'm so sorry. Mummy's plane landed in Yugoslavia last night. It was thought to have been a secret location, but they were intercepted by rebels… Some of the agents escaped, but others…"

"Is Mummy gone?" Mycroft whimpered.

Cian Holmes leant forward, with Sherrinford crying on his shoulder, and touched Mycroft's face, "Now. I want you to chin up, yes? What are we? We are the Empire. We are British. Now what do we say? What would Mummy say?"

Sherrinford sniveled, but he joined in with Mycroft as his own voice wavered, "Rule Britannia!"

Their father nodded satisfied, then placed Sherrinford down, "Exactly. We keep calm, and we carry on. Mummy hasn't been found. That is a good thing. A sublime thing. She may have escaped. Mummy is strong. A huntress. We must wait for news, and we must wait for her. Now, look Sherrinford, see? Mycroft is being very brave. Mummy would be proud. Now, up we get. I'm taking you to your rowing lesson today."

And wait for Mummy they did.

For months they waited. Life continued. School lessons were learned in their little classroom in the west wing of Holmes Manor. Rowing lessons went on, and rowing matches were won. And still they waited. But that was the only true conversation they had with their father, who, after accepting that he had done the dutiful thing in comforting his boys during their time of duress, continued with his travels and his study.

Sherrinford and Mycroft looked after each other.

It was one night, a little over two years later when Mycroft awoke in the nursery with Sherrinford, to a scream. Sherrinford sat up at once, setting his book aside, a finger flying to his lips, but no apprehension was needed. The scream had not been from fright, but from a servant in shock who had dropped a silver tray of dishes, which had crashed to the ground.

Mummy had returned.

Haggardly worn out, and with more lines on her face than Mycroft had remembered, but she had returned. Sherrinford and Mycroft had held hands as their feather light footsteps softly made their way down to the commotion of the household being in uproar. One servant was rushing to call Lord Holmes who was abroad, while others were crying. The Lady had returned from the night.

The brothers slid down on to the floor by the doorway, hidden from the scene, still holding hands, and Sherrinford, though he was now nine and should have been too old for tears, began to cry.

"Mummy's back!" Mycroft tightened his grip on Sherrinford's hand. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face. He felt his face could split apart from it, and he was so happy he could burst. But for some reason he was frozen to the spot, and could not move to run in and throw himself at her. He was too full of nerves. Something held him back.

"…The boys. I want to see my boys. Peter, would you wake them?"

For some reason Sherrinford pried his hand from Mycroft's and was up at once, running to hide. Mycroft stood, but did not follow, and stared after his brother in shock. _"Sher! Sherrinford!"_

The door of the room suddenly opened, the light spilling in and the happy scene exposing Mycroft. There was laughter, and he was pulled in by joyful servants to the woman he had not seen in what seemed like many lifetimes, to a small boy. She stared down at him, her face full of an expression he did not quite understand, but when he was older realised it had been awe at the sight of her boy having grown so much. She reached out to touch his cheek; then stopped, her hand faltering, inches from his face. She then touched his shoulder instead, squeezing it, and he instantly straightened.

She nodded and patted his back approvingly, "Like a little man. Quite right. And what do little men say?"

Mycroft answered straightaway, "Rule Brittania!"

Mother's return spurned the nation into a frenzy. The survivors of the top secret mission became known in the press as the Dolls Eyes, named after the poisonous berries. They had against all odds survived, after being taken prisoner. After escaping they had carried on with their mission, and had destroyed the terror cell network they had originally gone in to fight. The point of the trip had been to bring back British nationals in crisis, but Una, seizing initiative had chosen to infiltrate the system as a whole. She had moved through the world in clandestine secrecy from Yugoslavia, to Moscow, to even the Horn of Africa, and lastly had been assisted in Bahrain, by the son of a sheikh. He had then helped the surviving members of the Dolls Eyes to return home to London.

Lady Holmes had been invited to give account on her adventure to lectures and conferences around the United Kingdom, and had been in every paper and on every news channel. She had turned down a book deal, finding such things frivolous, but she became as renowned as Nancy Wake, the famous spy from the Second World War, better known as the White Mouse. Even now, decades later, in Her Majesty's Secret Service, mention of being the son of a Dolls Eye opened doors. It had for the Wonder Boy, Mycroft Holmes, who at an early age had enjoyed leading MI5 for a short stint. Sherlock however…Being Sherlock, had snubbed all association.

The small hint of a stomach at his mother's return was not the world's best kept secret, but as far as Mycroft could remember, the only mention of it would have been behind closed doors, as there was no memory of confrontation. His mother had been through hell, had been lionhearted and had returned to them, the nation's darling and heroine. And that was all that had mattered. That she was back. It was every Christmas come together, all in one, for Mycroft.

A child of Winter, the small boy with a shock of ebon curls, had been born during the heart of a snow storm, six months later. Sherrinford and Mycroft had been ushered in the room while their mother slept, and as they looked into the crib at the bundle, the little face turned, and eyes already bright looked up at Mycroft.

"Meet your new little brother, boys," the nurse whispered, "Your mother said he is to be called Sherlock."

The boys were silent, and Mycroft said not a word, but he loved the infant straightaway with a ferocity he had only thought could ever be reserved for his mother and Sherrinford. But it was almost primal, far more wild than he had ever felt for anybody else. It was both protective and possessive. The little boy was his.

Sherlock's existence had meant that Mummy had lived.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five._ **

Mycroft gestured to the leather wingback chair as he moved to the cabinet to pour them both a drink. Sherlock shuffled over, still with his blanket wrapped snug around him – in so many ways like a child – then with his usual air of contradictions, dropped down into the seat with the careless grace of a cat. Mycroft held back a smile as he came to his brother, who took the tumbler of brandy, looking up as Mycroft lent against his mahogany desk, folding his arms.

"Sherlock," Mycroft asked carefully, "Are we alone in here right now?"

His question was rewarded with a dangerous glare, then a roll of the eyes and Sherlock finally muttered, "Yes, Mycroft. I'm not _seeing_ things again."

"Good, good," Mycroft said quietly, then tried to explain, "I ask because there is something important…" then realised there was no point and just sighed, taking a sip from his own drink. He noticed his hand was trembling. So much could have gone wrong those few days ago, even after the Fall. One slip, one careless word and he could have really had to bury his brother. Another brother. He took a longer sip.

"Rule Britannia," he barely heard Sherlock murmur.

Mycroft smiled slightly at that, "Mummy would have been extremely proud, Sherlock."

"Don't be condescending," but the words were too weary for real spite.

"Why on earth would I stop now after all this time?"

That managed to quirk Sherlock's mouth into a bit of wry amusement. It did not last long however, as he placed the tumbler on the carpet and buried his face in his hands. He was worn out in so many ways.

"She was sad."

"Mm?" Mycroft asked.

"Molly…" Sherlock said, "She never cried. She just went on with her work, as if I really had died. She didn't cry, but she was sad. I never realised how gentle she is with the cadavers."

Mycroft watched his brother mull over the thoughts of the last few days. The girl from the mortuary had done a fine job in assisting Sherlock. Well. It was out of love. Love always polished duties more so than errands done without that sentiment to enhance results. She had been the right one to use. The only one. She had taken charge of Sherlock's body after he had been brought in on a stretcher. She had tended to him, cleaned him, had given him a draught that had had him slip into a very, very deep sleep, not unlike a coma. So Sherlock could while away the hours, and would not have to suffer the awareness of John identifying the body. She had placed him into the cold chambers of the mortuary till she had completed the paperwork for his body, and then when it was sensible and safe, she and Mycroft had smuggled Sherlock to her empty childhood home. The coma had protected Sherlock from the cold of the chambers, but once he awoke his body quivered compulsively. Mycroft had fought the urge to tend to his brother's needs himself as Molly rushed about, but somehow he did not think the girl would have even let him, as she went about like a strict matron on a ward, filling him with hot tea and covering him with blankets after blankets.

"Want brandy," he had appealed for in between shivers.

"Don't be foolish, Sherlock," her tone brooked no nonsense (when had she become so confident around his brother? He remembered a pitiful little thing who would have instantly scampered off had Sherlock said 'Mouse'), "It might make you believe you feel warmer, but it lowers your body temperature. Causes your blood vessels to dilate –"

"Yes, yes, I know," he had muttered.

For three days Sherlock had stayed there. Mycroft felt a surge of relief when he was finally able to take possession of his brother himself, and bring him in secret to Holmes Manor. It was where he belonged, however temporary it could be, not with some silly moonstruck girl. No matter how well intentioned she may be. And competent. All of a sudden. How _had_ she become so confident?

Sherlock was thoughtful. "Sentiment."

Mycroft finished his drink, "You're beginning to understand it?"

"Mm."

Mycroft sighed. He could not put this off, no matter how he wanted to. He opened his mouth but his stomach twisted uneasily and he shut it, and both sat there in silence.

Finally Sherlock asked, "Where are you going to send me, Mycroft?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes. He had to begin. Without answering he moved around the mahogany desk and collected his umbrella. He then came to Sherlock, and with a quick turn the handle opened up. He saw that Sherlock could not suppress a smile. Yes, he had long believed that Mycroft kept a blade hidden in the umbrella he took everywhere. He had not meant for the umbrella to become his own sort of trademark, but, sometimes there was no helping these kinds of things. Sherlock slid out what he thought would be some sort of blade, but looked confused when instead a thin, straight, stick of wood fell into his hand. He placed the umbrella down and turned the wood about in his hands. Forks of lightning were carved into the simple black cherry coloured timber.

"Sherlock, there is something I am going to have to tell you. But you are under considerable emotional strain, so I need to know. Truly. Are you well?"

He expected some sort of smart retort, but Sherlock seemed to be too busy studying the wood. Finally he deigned himself to answer, "Mycroft, I'm in my right mind. I have not been down in the depths in eons. John…" his voice trembled, "John has helped me considerably with that."

"Yes." Mycroft walked over to the other leather chair, and pulled it close to his brother.

Sherlock looked up sharply, his black curls swinging as he looked confused at the close proximity as Mycroft sat down.

He took the stick from Sherlock and said, "They say with these things, that the wand chooses the wizard."

"Mycroft, what on earth are you talking about?"

Mycroft turned the object about in his hands thoughtfully, "I hate this thing, you know. I hate everything about it. What it stands for. What it means I am. I like to think that I would never use it, but the fact I keep it close to me at all times, suggests… A weakness in me that I… The moment I saw you after you were born I loved you, do you know that? It is a strange thing, one of us Holmes' telling another that they are loved. And yet others seem to relish in that confession to the point of gluttony. Love… _Love,_ Sherlock, should not be squandered about. It is a sacred thing… I think our family has the right way of it. When one tells another, the other stops and takes note. And so, I loved you when you were born. And when you were small, and it was obvious to the world that you were special, I took upon myself the role to protect you. And whatever weapons that meant using, I would utilise. Which means this. This insignificant stick of marvel that has weighed upon me since…" he stopped, taking note that Sherlock was staring at him, his mouth open.

Mycroft raised his brow.

"Are you feeling well, Mycroft?"

"Oh for heaven's… _Sherlock."_

Sherlock shifted on his seat, "This is all very… Moving, I suppose is the word…But I don't see…"

"I am a wizard."

Sherlock blinked. And tilted his head. It seemed to pain him to admit, "I am not familiar with that MI5 terminology."

Mycroft laughed. In fact he grinned, feeling an irrational bout of fondness for the young man, that he instantly compartmentalized and pushed away.

He held up the wand, "Blackthorn. Ten inches. Dragon heart string at its core. I am a wizard. The same honour as Merlin, the same darkness as Queen Mab. All the old fables are true. Well... True enough. Truth is always relative. The Old Blood from the Old Religion, the foundations of the earth, the secrets of star dust, all running through my wretched veins. Coursing like…An infection."

Sherlock just stared at him, his mouth still open. Gently, like he did when his brother was a child, Mycroft leaned forward and with his finger closed Sherlock's mouth shut.

Sherlock just stared at him. Finally, he managed to say, "And our _dear_ Ms Riley revealed to the world the _madness_ of _Sherlock Holmes –"_

Mycroft closed his eyes, "Sherlock –"

"Exposed to _the world_ what Mother and Father _bled_ in their efforts to keep secret and safe –"

Sherlock's words cut like a knife, and Mycroft tried to take Sherlock's arm. But Sherlock was up, his foot accidentally knocking the tumbler over. Liquid seeped into the expensive carpet, and Sherlock continued to talk in a feral hiss, " –that their youngest was mad, had needed to be put away, discretion above everything was the priority. So the social circles of London would never know the Holmes shame, that little Sherlock was born a bad seed, that he needed constant supervision from his brother. The same brother who thought it of vital importance to the security of crown and country to spill all the Holmes' dirty little secrets to a criminal mastermind, so he would use it to defraud the detective when at whim. The perfect ammunition. Nobody can escape the broken reputation of madness! But it ends up – the beautiful, terrible irony of all of this – is it ends up that the good son, the perfect son, the dutiful son, it turns out Mycroft Holmes is secretly _the maddest of the lot!"_

Sherlock started to laugh. It was a chuckle at first, silent, but then it gained momentum. He crouched down on his haunches, letting the blanket drop from his figure as he began to rock slowly back and forth, clutching at his head and laughing. Madness. Kitty Riley had written about Sherlock's madness. Of the times where he had been discreetly signed in to a private clinic, absent and out of it, of the times where he had been dragged to the hospital, screaming abuse at Mycroft, at his mother, at his silent father. Of the times where he had been homeless. When Lestrade had first found him on the streets during his early days as a constable, when he had been a frightened boy high off his face… All facts, all twisted by an ambitious journalist to forge a career on the ruins of the great Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock laughed and he could not stop, tears streaming down. John. _John. He needed John._

"Silencio."

Suddenly everything was quiet. Sherlock looked up, brought back to reality roughly. He didn't understand – in shock, he grabbed at his throat. Something had… Something had cut his laughter off… His eyes focused on Mycroft, and he watched as Mycroft cast the stick aside. His brother, his big brother, the Ice Man, was trembling, and he dropped his face in his hands, "It's a disease, Sherlock. It's poison, but it will protect you, and so I will use it as I must. I am sorry."


	6. Chapter 6

**_Chapter Six._ **

Sherlock's fingers scrabbled at his throat in confused fright, pulling away from Mycroft, who had crouched down beside him on the floor in efforts to placate him.

"Sherlock, calm down."

He barely heard Mycroft as his fingers pressed and squeezed the skin of his throat in harried attempts to revive his voice, and Mycroft swore as he seized his hands tightly, "Sherlock, you'll bruise yourself, it's all alright, _Sherlock."_

Sherlock fought against him, desperately trying to yell, and it took much of Mycroft's strength to pin him down, "Sherlock!" It saddened him to know that this was not the only time as an adult he had had to restrain him. And it was starting to take most of his strength. The last time had been almost two years ago. He was getting old.

"Sherlock, it's me! You're all right!"

Suddenly Sherlock slumped back into the carpet, his strength sapped from him. His breath came out raggedly, and after a few moments of being certain he was calm, Mycroft gently released him. Sherlock's hands moved back to his throat, but not in the dangerous desperation of his fit. He would not harm himself in his confusion.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead wearily, and repeated his words softly this time, "Sherlock. It's me. You're all right."

Sherlock made no attempt to move, nor even to look at him, and Mycroft reached over for his wand. "I will return your voice to you, but only if you swear not to say anything while I tell you some things. Is that understood?"

Sherlock lay there, but slowly nodded, and Mycroft murmured the counterspell. Sherlock muttered under his breath to confirm that he was indeed able to speak again but remained silent as he said he would.

Mycroft took a deep breath, "I was only at Eton for a year."

Sherlock looked at him sharply, but true to his word said nothing.

Mycroft began to explain awkwardly, "I had always had this power, you see… This … Ability …Strange things happened around me. I had a trick – apparently it always begins to manifest as little tricks in children. I could make fire dance. On the tips of my fingers. And also the pages would turn in books when I had finished reading them. Not much more than that. I never dreamed that it was any more then that, but I knew even then I should keep it close to me. That it would not be a welcome talent in this family. I knew what I wanted out of life at a very young age, and this ability would do nothing but get in the way of my plans."

Sherlock said nothing.

"When I was eleven, I was sent a letter from a school which went by the name of Hogwarts. In green ink, I can see it now still…I'd thought it a joke at first, something Sherrinford had concocted, if not for the fact that our mother had looked at it with such horror and tore it up before I had the chance to slit open the envelope. She said never to speak of it again. Which I did not. Until a week went by, and two more of the letters arrived. Mother was away, but Father had them burnt. By this time I had seen enough of the letter to see that it was a supposed school of magic. And I knew. I knew right then Sherlock, that this strangeness about me was about to become troublesome."

Sherlock opened his mouth then, only to ask very quietly, "Is this real?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Mycroft answered, "This is real."

Sherlock went quiet again, and Mycroft continued, "I was all set for Eton. I was finally going away to school. I was going to miss Sherrinford and you terribly of course, but this was something I had looked forward to for eons. Father's family had gone there for centuries. _Centuries,_ Sherlock. Such tradition! And it is the traditions that define us. I had wanted to carry on that tradition, and ease Sherrinford's guilt that he hadn't been able to… Do you remember, he had gone for a term himself but had had to be returned home to be schooled. Riddled with social anxiety and nerves. You wouldn't remember that of course, you were only so small. At home he had been so confident, but out in public –"

"I remember," Sherlock muttered an interruption, "He stuttered whenever we had people around. That little snot Alistair Jenkins ribbed him about it until Sherrinford slugged him a good bruiser in the face."

"Yes… Well …I was to go to Eton. The connections meant I was a certainty of course, but I wanted to sit the tests and do the interviews anyway. And I was accepted. And then came this ridiculously fictitious sounding school to come spoil things. Oh, and they tried. I doubt anybody had ever tried to fight them, but Mummy did, spouting a whole mass of things and going against the – what they call, the Ministry of Magic –"

Sherlock started to laugh and Mycroft allowed it. It was ridiculous enough to laugh at, there was no supposing that.

But he went on as Sherlock chuckled, "It wasn't until years later when I was no longer a boy, that Father told me that Mother had come from that world. For it is a whole world Sherlock. They are their own people. They have their own currency. Their own Government. Mother had been what they call a Squib. She was from a family of witches and wizards –"

Sherlock began to laugh harder.

"And because she did not have the ability she was not treated well by either her peers or her family. She was able to go to the school still, all Squibs are allowed as there are plenty of non-magical subjects they can study. When she was only fifteen she ran away to our world. The police found her and she was placed in a girls' home, but managed to win a complete scholarship to the local ladies college. She then joined MI5 when she left school, and well… You know how she rose in ranks there. Mummy really was a remarkable woman. But she disowned that part of her life, you see. She didn't want anything to do with any of them," he paused, and added painfully, "I was her first reminder in nearly twenty five years of the life she had hated enough to flee."

Sherlock's laughter had faded. He looked at Mycroft, tilting his head as he thought, all incredulity now gone.

"I went to Eton for a year. And then… Mother could fight them no longer. I was sent to Hogwarts."

There was a silence.

"… Just like that?" Sherlock said.

"Mm?" Mycroft turned to face him.

"So just like that, you expect me to believe that Una Holmes folded towards this – this Ministry of Magic – the woman who railed against Margaret Thatcher in Parliament – just – just –"

"Yes," Mycroft said bluntly, "I am expecting you to believe that."

"Mycroft, why did you have to leave Eton?"

Mycroft stood up, moving around his desk and sat down, folding his arms, "Their world is an ideal place for you to lay low for awhile, Sherlock. And I mean, lay low. You may do all the chasing –"

"Why did you have to leave?"

"–around the countryside for Moran and the Spider's network all you like in a few months, but for the safety of the three you saved you must have them all believe you are really dead –"

"MYCROFT."

Mycroft closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose patiently, before looking up and facing his brother, "Yes?"

"Firstly, I'm not quite so certain I actually believe this tall tale about – about a magical world full of unicorns and dragons –" Sherlock paused, waiting for Mycroft to sharply reprimand him about making fun of his story with made-up creatures, and then stopped when Mycroft merely raised a brow, "Good lord, you believe there are unicorns and dragons."

"I told you. The core of my wand is dragon heartstring –"

"You can't expect me to believe –"

Mycroft gestured his hands, "To be honest, right now I truly do not care what you believe. I am merely telling you. Because inevitably, and very soon you will believe. Everything I have said. You will Sherlock."

"This is mad – you're mad –"

Mycroft sighed, and said as kindly as he could, "We've been through this, remember? A few moments ago. You had a fit. Please don't have another one; it reminds me too painfully of darker days. Only now I don't have Lestrade to call to assist."

"This. Is. Insane."

"Actually, it isn't. Theologians and philosophers have debated since time began over the realities of our world. Magic –"

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands on Mycroft's desk, "You can't distract me, Mycroft. Not when I have a scent to chase after, you of all people should know this. What made you go to that school?"

Mycroft's eyes did not leave the glare of his brother's, "The Ministry of Magic ordered me to go. End of story."

Sherlock straightened and moved his hands against his lips into a thoughtful prayer gesture, still staring at Mycroft. Thoughts raced through his head as he finally said, "It's to do with Sherrinford."

Mycroft let out a forced laugh at that and Sherlock's heart squeezed as his brother's reaction confirmed his thoughts. "Mycroft…"

"As I said, a few months undercover should be –"

Sherlock's voice was soft, "What happened to our brother?"

The Ice Man wore his mask again. One of concealed emotion, not a hint of warmth. Utter, utter cold. "You know very well, Sherlock. There was an insurgent attack –"

"There was _not._ I went there myself! I asked around – there are no records –"

"You were born from a woman who kept the secrets of her nation under the highest order of confidentiality where she did not tell her family for years she lived, and your brother - yours truly - has served this nation in the same capacity, and you dare to stand there and tell me, because you – and who are you again, Sherlock Holmes? The boy who played detective in Scotland Yard with all of your toy soldiers, who never quite grew up. The spoiled little Peter Pan who used his big brother's credentials as a child would wear dress-ups, whenever he felt the need to entertain himself to distract himself from boredom – asked a few questions? Of course there are no records! Of course nobody answered your questions! People die every day and are explained away for the good of the public! Why on earth would you ever think Sherrinford's death would be any different?"

There was silence for a few moments between the brothers, before Sherlock stepped back and dropped himself back in the seat. He frowned and folded his arms, and inwardly Mycroft felt a surge of relief. He was hurt. But also Petulant. Good. That was always a good sign. Sherlock would drop the subject.

"Percy Weasley will take you to the abode you will be residing in, in a place called Godric's Hollow. It's a quaint little place, a completely functioning magical village. There you will stay in a cottage belonging to an old acquaintance of mine. Cissy Malfoy. She will meet you there, and for all intents and purposes, you are a very distant cousin of hers. You will go under a different name. Icarus Black. I have organised your new papers. I think you will find Icarus quite fitting - the one with wings who flew too close to the sun. Father used to tell you that story, yes?"

"Not my real father," Sherlock mumbled.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock leaned forward, "I said delightful. Now when will you tell me the truth behind Sherrinford?"

"Sherlock –"

Sherlock balled his fist and slammed it against the arm of the chair, "He was my brother too, damn you Mycroft!"

Mycroft sighed and folded his hands before him on the desk. He then said so very quietly, "I will apologise now to you. I am truly sorry. Really, Sherlock. More sorry than you will ever know. It is not fair, I know this. But I will never say a word about Sherrinford's death. I was only… I was only a boy, Sherlock. Can't you see that? I was only a boy… Sherrinford died. I saw it. I was there. Now for god's sake, let me help you so I don't have to have the burden of your death too. Is that understood?" he then stood, his voice rising, "Percy! You may now come in," then he lowered his voice again, and said, "Now let me tell you about something called Floo Powder."


	7. Chapter 7

**_Chapter Seven._ **

Percy was aware the moment he walked into Mr. Holmes' study that the brothers were in the midst of a dispute. He had had enough of those through his lifetime to know what that looked like. The younger Holmes was sitting like a child, feet tucked up on the seat and arms folded, his mouth curled in a frown. The elder sat at his desk as if nothing in the world was concerning him as he sifted through some paperwork.

"This subject isn't finished, Mycroft."

"Of course it is, brother mine."

The moment had such a feeling of familiarity that Percy had a surge of flashback.

_He was in the prefect study looking through his ancient runes homework when the door swung open and Ronald came barging through._

__

__

_"You!"_

_Percy did not look up as he turned a page, "I believe this is the prefect study area, Ronald. You are not –"_

_"I don't give a flying centaur's turd what room this is. You told Mum! You bloody snitched on me and told Mum!"_

_"Of course I did," Percy replied calmly, "You can't just go traipsing through the Forbidden Forrest whenever you see fit."_

Percy stopped and straightened, folding his hands behind his back, "Sir."

Mycroft looked up, "Ah, good. Percy, do pour yourself a drink. We will be quick of course, I will just brief you on what is going to happen."

"Thank you, Sir," Percy moved over to the cabinet and surveyed the alcoholic beverages present. He stood there awkwardly for a few moments. He didn't like to drink while on duty.

"There is a butterbeer in the lower shelf. Don't fret Percy, I prepared for you."

Percy smiled at the absentminded sounding remark and took for himself the bottle, pouring it into a tumbler; then joining the Holmes'.

"So this is my new handler," Sherlock muttered, "Brilliant."

Percy took a swallow of his drink.

"You must excuse my little brother, Percy. Once he is house broken, I am told he is bearable."

Percy kept his face neutral.

Sherlock looked up at him, "Ohhh, he's a smart one. Look at him Mycroft. Not about to laugh at your jab, as that won't keep him in good stead with me who he will have to deal with in this project, but not willing to frown, as you have seniority."

"Sir, if I may?"

"By all means, Percy," Mycroft gestured, "Be at ease."

Percy turned to Sherlock, "I am an agent of her Majesty's Secret Service in MI5. I have been so for just over a decade. The fact that I still live gives me quite a bit of seniority in the ranks. I have both undertaken and led missions where agents underneath me have died. I have uncovered rogue spies in my task force from the KGB, people I thought I trusted. I have fought and I have bled. Before that I fought in a battle that if lost would have crushed your whole entire world. I lived in a totalitarian state and I stayed clear from hospital when my father was butchered by a cursed snake, in fear that if I showed any care it would be used against my family. An elder brother was mauled by a monster. My younger died in my arms. In the aftermath of it all I hindered three separate suicide attempts by the twin of the brother who had died. It is particularly difficult to kill yourself if you have magic in your veins. The blessing is it gives you long life. The curse is it tries to protect you when you try to curse yourself. Once Georgie decided a cocktail of muggle bleach might be quick. Not a pretty sight, especially when you have the screams of your Mother as accompaniment to the discovery. So, Master Holmes, with all due respect, I care nothing for keeping in good stead with you, or whatever it is you think of me. I am here to do a job. You are the genius. I am your bodyguard, and your common sense, as I have been told sometimes that is something you lack."

There was a silence between the three, as Sherlock stood and surveyed him silently. He then replied, with a very quiet, "You forgot, you have undertaken torture."

"… What?"

"In your tirade. Of all the things you have endured, you failed to mention the torture. It is right there, see? I can tell. Right. There. Do you want to know how I know? It's that nervous twitch, right under your eye. Ah, yes," Sherlock moved forward, his finger reaching out to carefully touch under Percy's eye.

Percy envisioned slapping it away. Instead he stood there, rigidly, as Sherlock dropped his hand to his side.

"Well, Mycroft. This one has obviously passed the psychological tests. You say there is a cottage in some place called Godric's Hollow we're supposed to sit around in before we start searching?"

Percy blinked and looked to Mycroft who had closed his eyes and sighed, "… Sir?"

"Yes, _thank_ you, Sherlock," he opened his eyes again and looked to Percy, "Percy… I ask that you wait at least three months –"

A lifetime of obeying orders flew out the window as Percy stepped forward, his voice precariously quiet, "Pardon?"

"Percy… The first part of your mission will be to keep Sherlock safe and underground for a suitable –"

"No – sir – forgive me sir, but you promised –"

Mycroft rubbed his forehead wearily – Sherlock stared at him, himself – was Mycroft feeling _guilt?_ For what? Then he returned to looking at Percy.

"And what was it I promised?"

"You – you promised that I could track Audrey down!"

Mycroft shook his head slightly, "Those weren't my words, Percy."

"Those –" his words were becoming shaky – perhaps he hadn't passed the psychological tests the Secret Service sets so well – "Those weren't your words? You – you promised Sir. I said I would protect Sherlock. That I would aid him in the search! That I would do everything in my power!"

"Yes," Mycroft said softly, "And I swore I would facilitate this with every resource and connection I had. That everything I had was yours, in this task."

"To find Audrey! My wife! The mother of my daughter!"

Mycroft's voice was barely more than a whisper, "No. No, my boy, Audrey was never explicitly in the bargain."

Sherlock turned and looked at both of them confused. Mycroft was looking straight ahead, refusing to look at the boy, and the boy seemed to be racing through his thoughts, every single word that was made in this supposed promise or pact made between them, as if it were the most desperate thing in the world.

"I don't understand," he finally said.

Neither looked at him. He stepped forward suddenly when Percy started to sway, and lowered himself to the carpet, "You _promised."_

"I didn't, Percy. You thought I did, but I didn't."

"But I have… I have to… She is my wife…"

Mycroft stood, "Of course you may put your efforts into finding Audrey, Percy. But…"

Percy slowly looked up as understanding dawned on him, "But it's not my priority. You made it so it wasn't my priority. You worded it… You worded it perfectly, so…"

Mycroft nodded, "So it wasn't your priority."

_"Can somebody please tell me what is going on here?"_

Mycroft slowly turned to look at him, as Percy began to weep. Christ! Why was the boy weeping?

"He has promised to aid you and protect you in the search and destruction of Moriarty's web, little brother."

Sherlock nodded impatiently, with a touch of sarcasm. "That much I have gathered. But I do not understand – Audrey – his wife? – so, he isn't a widow then. She's a victim. Percy is to look for and find –"

"No. That was not part of the promise."

Sherlock still did not understand, "But of course he is able to do that."

"Of course," Mycroft said, "Of course he may. But not at the cost of you. And it is not his priority. If it is a choice between you or his wife… He must choose you."

"Because… He made a promise…" Sherlock said bluntly, still not comprehending what was so upsetting to the Weasley lad.

Mycroft smiled. But it was not a friendly smile. Nor did it have a hint of kindness. "He made an Unbreakable Vow, Sherlock. It can never be broken. It is a blood oath… Of sorts. If he fails in this endeavor, if he fails you, the cost is his life."

_…The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now…_

The statement that he had told John the night he had first moved in… Sherlock knew that John had never quite understood the exact truth of that. The terrible depth to it. Sherlock knew what it meant. He had always known, even as a boy, that Mycroft was frightening.

"Why did you choose him?" Sherlock asked softly, "Out of all the field agents you could have loaned me…"

Mycroft tilted his head, "Isn't it obvious, Sherlock? The man's wife has been taken. Who else would fight to the death to bring the Spider's web down? Love is at stake for him. Love drives all emotions on, like no slave trader in history has ever been able to do. As long as she is in peril, he will give you everything."

"You're vicious…"

Mycroft smiled sadly, "You made a man you love watch you end your life. For the greater good," he chewed his lip thoughtfully, "Father was a kind, kind man. Gentle. Full of heart. I think we inherit the cruelty from our Mother, don't you?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one, I just wanted to post it to show that I'm still working on this, uni's just decided I need to die.

**_Chapter Eight._ **

Sherlock could still see the reverberations of the aftershock upon the young man’s face, even after returning from showering and having changed into fresh clothes. He was standing there, his posture too straight, his muscles too tense. He was so rigid, he was as good as trembling. Mycroft attempted to hide his disapproval at Sherlock’s attire when he entered the study again, which Sherlock could appreciate he was trying his best, but nevertheless he could not hold back on flipping the hood of the jumper over his curls when he meandered back in, to make a point. It was the simple things in life, after all, wasn’t it?

Whatever battle was raging within Percy Weasley, however, when Sherlock entered he strode straight to a softly crackling fire in the hearth and from the mantel took a pinch of glittering powder from a porcelain bowl.

“You will do as I do,” Percy instructed Sherlock without preamble, “You will take some Floo Powder, and you will throw it into the fire. When the flames turn green and only when they have done so, you will step into the fireplace and you will say Foxglove Corner. Is that understood? You must enunciate perfectly. What did I tell you to say?”

Sherlock stared at him, before turning to Mycroft, and gave him such a look as if to say 'is this for real?'

“Answer his question, Sherlock.”

Sherlock replied in a sing-song tone, “Foxglove Corner,” and then added with feigned excitement, “Ohhh, is that some sort of _spell?”_

“Of course it isn’t,” Percy answered, emotionless, not taking the bait of the sarcasm, “You aren’t magical, so what good would a spell do for you?”

Sherlock pulled a face. Well. He had a point.

“You will pick up your trunk,” Percy gestured to the travel case by the fireplace, “And after you step in and stand there, you will hold it close to your body, with your elbows tucked in tightly. This first time will be alarming. It will feel like spinning, akin to the sense of a dream. Do not move until you have reached the end point, which you will know when the images stop spinning. Then you will step out. Understood?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Percy flung the powder into the hearth and Sherlock stumbled back at the roar of emerald.

"Percy," Mycroft suddenly called out. There was guilt infused in the name. What _was_ Mycroft's story with this agent? Percy did not turn to him, but waited. Mycroft hesitated, then, "Good luck."

"Luck is for the mediocre, Sir, isn't that what you have always said?" Percy stepped forth into the fire, "Foxglove Corner," and it was as he had told Sherlock. He was gone.

Sherlock could not resist. "- Do you have a bastard son, Brother Dear?"

"Oh for-"

"No, of course not. You would only have been... And you're not exciting enough for such scandal."

"Is this truly how you want to wile away our last words?" Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock moved and picked up his trunk, then following what Percy had done, he took the powder, "Of course not," he then managed to steel his reaction the second time the flames burst green, "I'll follow your example, shall I?" 

A soft, "Sherlock."

Sherlock did not reply or wait. He managed to only hesitate a few moments as he stepped back into the hearth, and braced himself before he moved into actual flame. He offered a wry, disdainful _"Good luck,"_ and positioned himself, muttering "Foxglove Corner." He was standing in the heat, as the flames flickered about him, licking at the walls and at his clothes without harming him, as if he were an Old Testament prophet. Breathe, idiot, breathe, he told himself. Then he vanished.

Mycroft stood a moment after his brother's withdrawal, looking at the flames now softly crackling once more. His chest felt tight, and he closed his eyes to regain some semblance of his bearings. Sherlock was gone, with no clear evidence that he would ever see him again, except for luck and hope, which Percy had quite rightfully called out for being a fool man's guarantee. He then turned and left the room.


End file.
